


A Helping Hand

by TheLionInMyBed



Series: Raised By Wolves [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: (not really) - Freeform, (nothing graphic) - Freeform, Bad Puns, Familiars trying and failing to get their masters laid, Gen, Meet-Cute, Surgery, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 03:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9801044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: In which Imrael Sovelin needs a drink, makes a new friend, and most decidedly does not lend a hand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> By popular(ish) demand! Apologies for the roughness, I wrote this a couple of years ago.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. It made sense to practise, well, having a practicing by offering healing to those of Ferris’ citizens too poor for the apothecaries and too disreputable for the Yashethin free clinics. And since it was cheap and convenient for his clients, it was sensible to rent space in the Warrens which was really quite a friendly area despite its reputation. Imrael was realising now, with a woman he had been assured was not a criminal bleeding out on the table, that there was probably a very good reason he was the first person to try this.

“I’m only a student,” he tried, pressing a cloth to the stump where a hand had been messily hacked free. “I do cysts and infected toenails. I haven’t had the training for this.”

“If you don’t do anything, she’ll probably die anyway,” said Smiling Jenna, hideously sanguine. She’d made a point of introducing herself when they’d cornered him locking up and forced him back into the makeshift surgery. “And then you’ll have her blood on your hands figuratively ‘s’well as literally.” She raised the knife in her hand to pick her teeth, saw his expression and lowered it again.

“How was she injured?” he asked. It looked like the hand had been taken off with a cleaver and not a sharp one.

“Better you don’t know,” Jenna said. “Nasty business, that.”

“I can close the wound, that’s not a problem, but I can’t grow it back. That takes someone with far more skill than I-”

“A handyman?” Jenna’s grin widened. Her front teeth were filed to points.

“Shut the fuck up about _hands_ ,” the bleeding woman moaned.

“Do you have the…” Imrael stuttered and then rallied with, “The appendage in question? I _might_ be able to reattach it, but with the stump so mangled-”

“Oh no, it’s long gone. The Fingersnitch’s got it now. You’ll have to grow a new one.”

“I told you, I can’t.” Imrael pressed his lips together, concentrating on the ragged tangle of veins and arteries, setting a twist of magic to tie them off, one after another. Sweat pricked at his forehead and he felt the beginnings of a headache settle in behind his eyes. This was trying the very limits of his ability and would have been strain enough even without Jenna leaning in too close to watch him work, or with the third woman looming silent and threatening in the corner. She was tall enough she had to hunch so as not to brush the ceiling - ogre-blooded, perhaps - and so the looming took very little effort on her part.

“Could someone lend her a hand?” Jenna said as Imrael closed the last trickling capillaries and sank back against the counter with a sigh of relief. “Say we found one lying around, could you stick that on instead?”

“Perhaps? But it would have to be very fresh-”

“ _His_ hand,” the maimed woman slurred. “Cut it the fuck off and give it to me.”

The third woman, the one who hadn’t yet spoken took a step towards him.

“I think he needs it, darling,” Jenna said. “He can’t fix you up single handed. Besides, it wouldn’t even be the right colour. You’d look ridiculous.”

“It wouldn’t even be the right _species_ ,” Imrael said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

Jenna shrugged. “Run outside, Spider. See what comes to hand.”

“I am _not_ going to be party to that,” Imrael snapped, folding his arms across his chest. It was less a stubborn gesture than one that kept his own hands out of sight and out of reach.

“You mean you won’t have a _hand_ in-”

“ _Stop making puns_ ,” Imrael said. Wailed, in truth. “No, I’m sorry, make all the puns you wish and I’ll finish closing the wound but if you think for a moment that I’m going to let you-”

“You’ll not _let_ us do a thing,” Spider said. Her voice wasn’t as deep as her frame suggested but it grated out of her like her throat was lined with rust. “You’ll do what Jenna says.”

The clinic was small - cosy, Imrael had always told himself - but it had never seemed so claustrophobic before. He could not seem to fill his lungs and it took him several breaths to find the air to say; “I most certainly will not.”

“You’ll do what Jenna says or I’ll cut your hand off. Don’t care if it does Mayu any good.” It was the matter of factness that chilled him. It almost sounded like she meant it. She didn’t though, of course she didn’t, people didn’t _do_ things like that, but he kept his arms folded all the same to be sure they wouldn’t shake.

Jenna leant back against the operating table, not encouraging Spider but not making a move to stop her. “We said we’d do this nicely, Spy. You catch more flies with honey.”

“The fuck do you know about flies?” Spider reached out, almost lazily, and caught Imrael by the hair, tugging hard enough to snap his head back and then slammed him down onto the table hard enough the world blinked white. Her other hand closed about his wrist, pinning it to the wood before his face.

“I won’t do it,” he said. It would have been nice to sound boldly defiant rather than frightened and slightly muffled by the press of the table against his cheek.

He _wouldn’t_ do it though, he realised with a shock greater than the impact with the table had been. Was that courage that stopped his mouth? Surely not, he’d never been particularly brave, felt nothing more than sick and very frightened even though there was no reason to be, this couldn’t possibly be happening, she couldn’t really be reaching for a scalpel, this _couldn’t be happening_ -

“Excuse me?”

Imrael looked up, as far as Spider’s grip allowed - anything was better than watching the knife come down. The front door was open and there was a cloaked figure on the threshold, a flat black silhouette against the dark street beyond.

Children came by all the time with injured animals so perhaps it shouldn’t have been surprising to see a man cradling a wriggling bundle of fur. But then the bundle raised its head and suddenly he was staring into the muzzle of a fully grown timber wolf.

“My dog’s sick,” said the man, sounding apologetic.

“Is that thing rabid?” Jenna said, sidling around so that the table stood between her and the wolf. Dog. Whatever it was, it _looked_ rabid with its wildly rolling eyes and the pink foam drooling from its mouth.

The man blinked and his eyes flicked between Imrael, Spider and the blade in her hand. “There’s another right behind me,” he said flatly. Imrael could have kissed him for his presence of mind. Or killed him because, gods, there really was another one right behind him, a furred shadow with eyes that seemed to burn far brighter than the candlelight.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Jenna said. She was still smiling her sharp-edged smile, but now it looked plastered on. At least Imrael was no longer the only person in the room scared half out of their wits.

The sick wolf - it was _not_ a dog - whined. The second began to growl, a low rumble that made Imrael perversely glad that Spider was still leaning over him, keeping him pinned  - if it leapt for them it would be her it struck first.

“I just need someone to help my dog,” said the man. He raised his head beneath the hood and his eyes shone strangely, throwing back the light just as the wolf’s did.

“ _Shit_ ,” Jenna said. Whether she knew what that signified or not, she could tell a losing proposition when she saw one. “You know what? Forget it. We’re just going to take our friend and go. You folks have a nice evening.”

“Her hand-” Spider began.

“The bleeding’s stopped, she’ll be alright. Let’s _go_.”

The man obligingly stepped to the side, wolf and all, and the second one backed off into the night. There was a long awkward moment when nobody wanted to be the first to move and then Jenna was out of the door, Spider dragging Mayu in her wake.

“Are you alright?” the man said. The wolf in his arms was drooling bubbles onto his sleeve.

“Never better,” Imrael was please to find his voice barely shook. Of course she wouldn’t _really_ have done it. He prodded at his cheek experimentally and was disappointed to find it probably wasn’t going to bruise. It wasn’t every day he got attacked by thugs and then rescued by a handsome-ish stranger and now no one would believe him. “Imrael Sovelin, at your service. You do realise that’s a wolf you’re holding?”

“He doesn’t bite. He’s sick. Not,” the man hastened to clarify, “with rabies. He got into the bins behind the Rohit soap warehouse and ate half their waste before I got him out.”

“He ate _soap_?” There were probably more important questions to ask than that but he had a patient and that was safer to dwell on than the sour aftertaste of fear.

“About three pounds. Is it serious?”

“What kind of soap?”

The man sniffed. “Rose? Maybe some lavender?”

“I’m not a veterinarian and, even if I was, that’s a _wolf_ and I don’t know why you’d take it to a vet in the first place. Still. In children it’s usually no more serious than an upset stomach. Can you hold him while I palpate his abdomen?”

The man nodded and knelt to take the wolf’s head. The other one came over to sniff at them and he shooed it away absentmindedly.

“What’s his name?” Imrael reached out and tentatively prodded the wolf’s side and then again more confidently when it didn’t bite, or seem to notice him at all.

“Jeff. That’s Beryl.”

“Dare I ask why you’ve a pair of wolves following you about the city? Dare I ask why one of the...Good People is in the city at all?” _He_ knew what those eyes meant, after all.

“It’s a long story,” the man said, looking away. He was a horrible liar.

“Well they’re very well behaved. Questionable dietary choices aside.” The fur was thick and coarse to the touch, unpleasantly slick with what must be more soap, and then the wolf turned and tried to lick him which only made things slimier. “I can’t find any obstruction,” he said eventually although it wasn’t surprising when he only had the vaguest idea what he was looking for. “There may be some vomiting or diarrhoea. You should only worry if it persists.”

“Thank you. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine.” And he was. Nothing had happened save that he’d gained an excellent story to tell next time he was in the tavern. He washed the blood and spit off his hands - at least the soap from the wolf’s fur helped with that - and reached for his coat. “I could do with a drink though. There’s a decent-ish place just around the corner. You can tell me your shaggy dog story.” He did keep a bottle of brandy in the clinic but right then he thought the walk would do him good.

“Uh,” said the man, starting back. He was young, probably a little younger than Imrael, and now that Imrael could think past the gratitude and the _wolves_ , not unattractive. With that too-snubbed nose and those too-big ears, he wasn’t exactly handsome, but his dark eyes were striking and his movements were sharp and graceful. More important than that, he was _interesting_. A puzzle to be solved, and Imrael badly needed a puzzle to work on then.

“I have to- It’s not a good- Jeff. Might be sick.”

“Oh.” Imrael locked the door behind them both, checked it twice and then looked off down the dark street to where, almost out of sight, the sign for the Nobody Inn swung upon its post. “Well of course, don’t feel obliged.”

The second wolf, the one not drooling bubbles, nipped at her master’s fingers. “I- it’s on my way though. I’ll walk with you,” he said, snatching his hand away.

“I’m sure there’s no danger,” Imrael said breezily, setting off across the cobbles. “It’s not worth their while to come back.”

Keeping pace with him, the man said nothing.

That wasn’t a problem; in top form Imrael could chatter enough for three and even now, he could hold up both sides of a conversation. “Did you come here for school? But surely if you had, I would have noticed you around.”

“I doubt it.”

“A striking fellow like yourself? And,” Imrael added compassionately, when his companion flinched so badly that he almost tripped over a waterbutt, “If not you then certainly your familiars. I’ve always wanted one myself but the magic’s fiddly as, I'm sure, you know. When I was younger, whenever I found a stray cat or a bird or what have you, I’d steal scraps for it and try to bond. There was a beautiful crow that used to come when I called her and let me play at casting, but that’s just corvids - smart little buggers. I never managed to make a proper connection with any of them, didn’t have the knack. I _did_ get fleas once.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t have them now.”

“I’m not a mage. They’re just dogs.” One of the ‘dogs’ growled in acknowledgement, which put lie to that, but Imrael backed off.

They were almost to the inn’s door and Imrael stepped into the warm rectangle of light its window threw into the street. “So what do you do when you’re rushing gallantly to my rescue? Will I see you about?”

The man hung back and Imrael could make out nothing of his face save for his eyes, red as embers, narrowed with- suspicion? It might have been unsettling had Imrael the energy or inclination to be unsettled. “I- No. I travel. A lot.”

“You never gave your name.”

The man gave him one last look - Imrael placed his expression at last as panic - and fled. 

***

Imrael had stopped working quite so late after that - he could take a hint - but even though it wasn’t yet dark he still jumped at a sound behind him as he started back towards the dorms.

“I’m sorry.” The low voice with its strange, harsh accent was more reassuring than it should have been, issuing as it did from a hooded figure lurking in a dark alleyway.

“What’s he eaten this time?” Imrael asked, hiding a smile.

“Um,” said the man.

The wolf lurched out of the alley beside him. From its posture it was ashamed of the pot wedged on its head. The young man certainly looked embarrassed enough on its behalf and Imrael gave up on concealing his grin.

“You’d better come inside,” he said.

All it took to get it off was two people, a little exertion and a liberal application of lubricant, though he didn’t phrase it quite that way.

“Thanks,” said the man. "Again."

“Is he doing this deliberately?” They both looked down at the wolf who panted at them innocently and then went back to trying to lick oil off of the back of its own neck. 

"Yes."

"Because- 'Yes'?"

"You're lucky you only got fleas," said the man darkly. "Sorry. About the other night. It's Khazri.”

“Hmm?” That was a non sequitur if ever Imrael had heard one, enough to distract him from the antics of the dog. 

“My name,” the man - Khazri - said, scrutinising the toes of his battered, too-big boots.

“Khazri," Imrael repeated, careful of the pronunciation. A name was the least of the answers that he wanted, but it was a place to start. Better puzzling over that than how he might make his clinic more secure or whether he should have taken his mother up on those lessons in the sword she'd offered years ago. "Well, Khazri, how about that drink?”

**Author's Note:**

> On [tumblr](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com), come say hi!


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